You told us stories about your trip to Hell like it was Disneyland.
Like it was just a California spring break trip, but I could see the matte fear in your once galaxy shining eyes.
They reflected the flames, and the horror, and worst of all the blood that dripped down your own pale arms.
You told us about the boys who kissed you as if you were you were all they had. You said that's how they made you feel.
You talked about one boy in particular, but you refused to say his name.
I could tell it would be poison coming off your lips as you spoke.
You said that he touched you like you were made of glass and gave you drinks of burning fire.
You said you felt safe, that he made butterflies fly out of your scars, but your voice became quiet.
As you became quieter and quieter, your story about Hell dimming out, you looked at me and I saw the real story in your burning eyes.
He never touched you like glass.
He broke you over and over, and that's why open wounds covered old ones.
There were no butterflies.
The drink of fire taught you to be pushed around and to be opened like a little kid's birthday present, but this was no birthday present.
Before your eyes had left mine, your shaking finger went to your lips.
Your story of Hell would forever be my secret.